Post by Oliver Queen on Apr 29, 2020 2:42:28 GMT -5
Gotham City. If ever there was a place in the real world that deserved to be called a wretched hive of scum and villainy, this was it. People liked to claim that it was the death of Thomas Wayne that had begun the city's downfall, but study the history and you could see it beginning long before that, if you could manage to see past the philanthropy of the Wayne family or the distracting presence of the Justice Society of America. Gotham was a rotten city, always had been, and anyone who thought they could repair the damage by throwing money and charity at the problem was just relieving the symptoms of lung cancer with a cigarette.
The allusion to a galaxy far, far away hadn't managed to buoy Oliver's spirits. Nothing did these days, and he didn't want it to. Adults talked about him in hushed tones, far too close to be as out of earshot as they believed they were: guardians, therapists, interested parties, all curious to know how the freshly orphaned Oliver Jonas Queen was recovering only in so far as it pertained to them personally. How much will it cost us in legal fees to control who inherits Robert Queen's stake in the business? How is his ongoing sorrow going to impact the public image of Queen Industries, and cut into our profit margins? Is there a way we can use this to our advantage, and convert public sympathy into sales?
It was why he was here, instead of back home in Star City. Not his choice. Not his doctor's choice, either. It was William Glenmorgan who had made that decision: his mother's brother, his legal guardian in the absence of better alternatives, the man whose job it had been to keep his parents safe and alive - an utter failure in all regards, then. He had been Uncle Bill once, but no longer. Some of that was bitterness and blame, but the man that Oliver now found himself legally bound to no longer matched the fond memories and jovial demeanour of the man to whom that affectation had belonged. Perhaps it was his uncle's own sadness and guilt that had turned him bitter and cold. Perhaps this was just who he had always been, and there was no longer anyone left that he needed to perform for. It didn't matter either way: this man was no longer Uncle Bill, and Oliver refused to even think of him that way. William Glenmorgan was how he had begun to address the man, and his uncle most certainly had noticed; how he chose to think of the man meanwhile was something best kept to himself.
It was Glenmorgan who had decided Gotham City was a more suitable venue for Oliver's recovery. More specifically it was Brentwood Academy, a boarding school of international acclaim, filled to the rafters with the rich and pompous. Glenmorgan had all the right answers prepared, as far as the adults in Oliver's life were concerned. We can't force him to live here, alone in a mansion full of memories of what he's lost, surrounded by constant reminders, hustled from place to place like a prisoner or a prince to avoid the prying attention of a media who'd rather not allow the boy's fresh and story-worthy wounds the time they needed to heal. Brentwood knew how to deal with unwanted attention. The grounds were large, the walls high, the campus secure. Celebrities, dignitaries, ambassadors, foreign royalty - Brentwood was already equipped to safeguard the privacy and the education of their children. There was nowhere safer, nowhere better, for the orphaned Oliver Queen.
Oliver knew better, of course. Behind the eloquent explanations, the carefully crafted excuses, two simple concepts was all that mattered: out of sight, out of mind. Sending him to Gotham placed him too far away for anyone back home to care; and to the people here he was basically nobody, just another minor name amid a sea of more interesting minors. It was a selfish choice by Glenmorgan, yet Oliver was grateful for it just the same. All he wanted these days was to fade away into the dark nothingness that consumed his every thought and feeling; here in Brentwood, perhaps he'd have the chance.
"The Principal will see you now."
The words tore Oliver's eyes away from the horizon, from the skyline just visible across the Gotham river in the distance. Amusement Mile, they called it; a broken, twisted, abandoned relic of happier times, dilapidated roller coasters and rusted old ferris wheels. 'We Can't Control The View' was the official line of Brentwood Academy, whenever a student's wealthy parents complained - which was often. The truth was more complex than that, of course. Amusement Mile wasn't just a desolate theme park, it was a symbol, and an icon. It represented Gotham City almost perfectly: the ruins of the great distraction, an attempt at happiness torn down and reclaimed by Gotham's inner darkness. It was a great albatross around the city's neck, a haven for crime, a curse upon anyone brave enough and foolish enough to try and renovate, restore, or reclaim the land.
But that was only part of it, and the least interesting part for Oliver Queen. What held his attention, what drew his focus every time he found himself close enough to a window with the right kind of view, was how it aligned to the grainy monochrome snapshot that graced a newspaper clipping in a non-descript box stashed under the bed of his dorm room. You could barely even see it, a dark silhouette of wings against a dark and hazy sky, but even if it drained every iota of willpower he still possessed, Oliver could see it: The Batman. Gotham's dark defender. People claimed it was an urban myth. The world didn't have heroes anymore: that's what the Vigilante Regulation Act had been for, tearing down the Justice Society of America and anyone like them. It had only been five years, and yet America acted like it had been five centuries. As if every costumed crimefighter was gone and accounted for. As if they'd all faded into willing obscurity, retired or recruited or whatever else it was that the government had quietly done with them. He wondered if every city was this gullible, or if it was just a Gotham Special: that willingness to believe that hope was gone just because someone in a suit said as much.
Oliver knew better, and it wasn't just wishful thinking, or willful ignorance. It was the newspaper clippings stashed under his bed. It was the cobbled-together radio stashed in the disused rickety potting shed out by the lacrosse courts, that - if you squinted and strained to hear past the static - could listen in on the police radios of the GCPD. He heard the stories. The evidence. The proof. And that was why he knew it was real; knew that it had happened. The Batman and The Joker. Right there on Amusement Mile. He remembered that night, remembered the noise and the chaos, the police helicopters with their searchlights out over the river lighting up the theme park as it were once again active and alive. Some of the students had panicked. Some of them had delighted, faces pressed up against the glass. Oliver had made the smarter play: he'd snuck outside, crept as close to the edge of the river as the campus grounds had allowed. And that's when he'd seen it, seen him, wreathed in searchlight like some avenging angel. The Batman was real. Oliver didn't know what that meant for him, but it was a truth he clung to with all his might.
And so it was agony to tear his eyes away from that view, and that memory, back to the painful reality that was his life. Dutifully he slid from the antique chair in the wood-panelled waiting area outside the Principal's office, barely even wasting the thought or energy to contemplate what it was he might be in trouble for this time. His movements were a slow trudge, hands jammed into pockets, shoulders slumped under the overwhelming weight of everything Oliver's life contained. His head only tilted upwards when they recognised an unexpected extra pair of legs awaiting him in the Principal's office, distinct from the pair fortified behind the desk that the Principal himself never seemed to leave. Oliver's eyes managed to muster a questioning glance towards the Academy's ruler, the tiniest spark of curiosity managing to creep through the otherwise impenetrable fog of his thoughts.
The Principal did not look happy. That improved Oliver's mood ever so slightly. "This is Bruce Wayne," he droned, as if somehow that explained everything. Somehow it did. Now that the name was provided, Oliver recognised the jawline, the eyes. Most might know Bruce Wayne from the tabloids or the news; Oliver knew him better from the photographs and paintings scattered around Brentwood Academy. Gotham's Bad Boy, the newspapers called him, but to Brentwood he was a favoured son, a famous alumnus, and the name on a no doubt significant percentage of the cheques that helped fund the institution. For Oliver though, there was a bitter aside when it came to Bruce Wayne: his predecessor, Brentwood's previous orphaned heir. Not that he and Bruce Wayne were the only students to have lost parents, of course, but their fathers, and their family business? It was a comparison that Oliver couldn't blame anyone for drawing. And now Bruce Wayne was here, waiting to see him. No points for guessing what that was about.
Helpfully providing the expected context, the Principal shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The disapproval was palpable, the indignance at some rich know-it-all showing up and trying to tell him how to deal with one of his students; the frustration at knowing that Bruce Wayne's financial contributions were too significant for him not to oblige. Oliver almost smiled. Almost. The Principal's expression pinched in a faint wince. "He believes that, given your mutually common circumstances -" He trailed off; fidgeted slightly with the corner of a stack of paperwork on his desk. "- you might benefit from having someone to talk to."
* * *
The door of Oliver's rental closed with a satisfying clunk. He wished it didn't feel like such a gavell of finality; wished the inanimate vehicle had been able to offer some kind of reassurance under the circumstances. There were a few places in Gotham City that Oliver had been dutifully avoiding during this visit, and here was one of them: Wayne Manor. Perhaps not the worst place he could visit - Brentwood Academy was a few miles in the opposite direction - but the old house was still enough of a reminder of those times that it made him feel like a child again.
The same was true of the man inside: a man with whom Oliver's relationship was best described as complicated. Bruce Wayne had come to him at one of the worst times in his life, and without question he was significantly responsible and to blame for the man that Oliver Queen had since become. But that sword was double-edged, and for all the nurturing and purpose that Bruce Wayne and The Batman had provided during Oliver's freshly orphaned teens, the damage they had dealt to each other when Oliver had left Gotham all those years ago was just as defining, and like the thankfully out-of-view Amusement Mile that lay off in the distance behind him, it had become the kind of damage that you just lived with, rather than the kind that anyone had the energy or the inclination to try and fix.
Oliver might have avoided this encounter for longer if he could have. He'd certainly delayed it for as long as he could: his investiation into Queen Consolidated had brought him to Gotham weeks ago, and only now was he making the effort to visit Bruce Wayne. There were questions of etiquette there, a possible breach of the unspoken and undefined protocol between vigilantes. Everyone knew that Gotham City was Batman's territory. Everyone knew that you didn't just show up on another hero's turf and expect everything to be sunshine and roses. If anyone ever did get around to writing down those unspoken rules, that would absolutely have been Rule 1. You didn't operate in Metropolis without clearing it with Superman, nor in Central City without getting The Flash's blessing, nor Star City without Green Arrow's, nor Gotham without the Batman. Being here for so long would have been pretty close to breaking that hypothetical cardinal rule. But Oliver Queen had excuses; a whole quiver of them.
For starters, he wasn't here as Green Arrow. He was here as Oliver Queen, and while The Dark Knight policed the streets of Gotham for crime and corruption, there was nothing in his mandate, manifesto, or modus operandi about policing tourism. Sure, Oliver Queen hadn't been entirely Oliver Queen, not 24/7, but in these situations there was always a little bit of wiggle room. If written down, hypothetical Rule #2 would have been 'See Rule #1, except when you're clearing up your own mess.' If Brainiac or Reverse-Flash rocked up in Star City, no one would have been up in arms if Superman or The Flash had shown up to resolve the problem. Batman himself had swung by Star City from time to time over the years, and he was far too broody and standoffish to have cleared it through Green Arrow first. And so sure, this wasn't strictly the same situation, it felt close enough for Oliver to have at least made a decent case.
Except.
It was the except that started to put a wrinkle in things. It was the except that had kept Oliver Queen awake the last few nights, and the except that had finally won out over his reluctance and inner emotional turmoil to finally bring him here to Wayne Manor. It was an absolute doozy of an except, too. Because Oliver Queen wasn't here chasing down Brick, or Cupid, or Merlyn. He wasn't on the trail of a villain; not even on the trail of a crime, per se. He was here in Gotham City chasing a bad feeling. He was here because something funky was going on with his family business, a family business that had, years ago, relocated its head office to Gotham City. So he was here on his own business, yet he was here to deal with a Gotham City problem. The answer should have been simple: superhero crossover. The newspapers would have had a field day that, especially the ones smart enough to put two and two together and figure out that the archer known as the Green Arrow was also the archer formerly known as Robin. DYNAMIC DUO REUNITED. Or maybe, BATMAN AND ROBIN HOOD RETURN!. The papers would have loved it, and Bruce would have hated it - which made it even more of an appealing prospect. Except.
The whole situation was strange, and squiffy. Worse, it was a situation that Oliver knew Bruce Wayne would understand, and relate to. If there was anyone in the world who could grasp the concept of being worried about what shady parties were doing with the family legacy that your orphaned ass didn't manage to successfully inherit from your dead parents, it was Bruce Wayne. Clearly, obviously, Bruce Wayne should have been the first person that Oliver Queen called, regardless of everything else. He should have been, and yet he wasn't. And there was the except.
Oliver was afraid. A wise man had once told him that admitting your fears was the first step in defeating them. Unfortunately, he hadn't bothered to explain what the second step was, and so here was Oliver, afraid and aware of it. The what behind his fear was a little hazy, and perhaps that was part of the problem. It wasn't as if he hadn't worked with Bruce Wayne since their dramatic parting of ways back when Oliver had decided to leave Gotham City. It wasn't as if they hadn't spoken - or shouted, mostly - since Oliver's return from the dead a few years ago. They'd even worked together since, thanks to A.R.G.U.S. and their little Club of Heroes and the occasional impending alien incursion or metaterrorist invasion. They were keeping it professional. But maybe that was the problem: keeping it professional, when things absolutely should have been personal.
Feet crunching against the gravel driveway, Oliver approached Wayne Manor as confidently as he could, adjusting his leather jacket carefully as if presentation somehow mattered, instinctively checking the collapsable hand crossbow tucked into a holster at the small of his back. A pistol would have been better, and more practical, not to mention less of a suspicious choice of concealed weapon for someone who didn't want folks to realise that Oliver Queen was the Green Arrow; but Oliver knew all too well how Bruce Wayne felt about firearms, and not bringing one to the doorstep of Wayne Manor was a gesture that he hadn't even needed to consider. Guns weren't welcome here. They didn't belong.
Cuffs were adjusted next, and idly Oliver began to wonder if he should have worn a suit. It wasn't Bruce Wayne's judgement that Oliver was worried about this time, however: because layered on top of his reluctance to visit his former partner and mentor was a whole separate set of complicated emotions that surrounded Wayne Manor's gatekeeper. Mustering up every scrap of resolve he could find, Oliver extended a hand, and knocked on the door.
